


The Hand That Waters the Vine

by Snowgrouse



Series: Of Roses Unfurling [11]
Category: Thief of Bagdad (1940), كتاب ألف ليلة وليلة | Kitaab 'alf layla wa-layla | One Thousand and One Nights
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Anal Gaping, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Anal Sex (female receiving), Anal-Oral Sex, Androgynous male character, Ass to Mouth, BDSM, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Cock & Ball Torture, Come Eating, Come Sharing, Come play, Cunnilingus, Dark Het, Dinner, Engineering, Established Relationship, F/M, Face-Fucking, Felching, Fellatio, Fisting, Fluff and Smut, Fucking Machines, Held Down, Heroine/Villain, Het and Slash, Heterosexual Anal Sex (female receiving), Heterosexual Anal Sex (male receiving), Historical, M/M, Magic, Magic as sex aid, Married Couple, Masturbation, Middle Ages, Multi, Muslim Character(s), Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, Other, POV Bisexual Character, PWP, Perfume, Prostate Milking, Queer Het, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Romance, Rough Sex, Sex Robots, Sex Toys, Soul Bond, Spitroasting, Subspace, Telepathic Bondage, Telepathic Sex, Telepathy, Tenderness, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism, ass to other person's mouth, delayed gratification, heterosexual anal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-04 10:13:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6653815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaffar and Yassamin build themselves a clockwork pleasure-doll, taking great delight in playing with their new silver lover long into the night. But eventually, even magical lovers must be laid to rest: for tonight, the time has come for Jaffar to finally take Yassamin's hand.</p><p>***</p><p><i>For an entire week, Yassamin watches him burn. She denies him her caresses, turns him from her bed, feeding that part in him that so thrives on anticipation, denial. And his fire stokes hers in turn, rippling into her body through their psychic bond: even as he tends to his affairs, plays with his children, works on his devices, she can feel the pulse of heated blood in his cock, the tightness in his sack, the stray moans held back in his throat. The heat that the retained sperm brings to the body as it rises up his spine, the magical power it builds up in the flesh and the nerves, all of him vibrating and humming with it, his touch electric: oh, but he is <b>beautiful.</b></i> </p><p>
  <i>Yet this is no ordinary denial-game, no ordinary lovers' tease: for now, at Yassamin's behest, Jaffar has started to stretch himself, make way in himself to finally take her hand.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A variation on the theme of Jaffar building a sexbot to pleasure Yassamin and himself, previously featured in [The Silver Bridegroom.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1927380) While that particular story was a standalone one-off, unrelated to any of my other ToB stories, Sarosh is now fully integrated into the Rosesverse. In addition to that, the last third of this fic is dedicated to Yassamin finally fisting Jaffar--something they had both wanted to do for a long time, but had to get all kinds of other adventures out of the way first, to gather experience and trust. 
> 
> Happy seventh anniversary, you wonderful medieval Persian dorks.
> 
> P.S. [This](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shabestan) is a shabestan, the sort of space in which the story takes place. More photos [here.](http://aikainkauna.tumblr.com/post/143368345188/some-pictures-of-shabestans-only-one-of-these) I did not want to use the term "cellar" or "basement," as these were usually huge and vaulted underground spaces big enough to house even large harems, characterised by their elaborate cooling systems. So it's one of these Jaffar's now turned into his workshop.

_Just as variety is necessary in love,_  
_So also variety, in its turn,_  
_Generates love._

\--The Kama Sutra

***

"Yassamin?" Jaffar calls out as he descends the stairs into the shabestan.

"I am here, my love," Yassamin says over her shoulder.

Jaffar huffs and puffs as he makes his way to the back of the workshop, unable to see in front of himself for the pile of books he is carrying. He slams them down onto the table Yassamin has been working at, then blinks in indignation as he takes in the sight.

For there, his wife stands, working on his latest automaton as if she had been its engineer all along: her hair tied into a knot, a loupe in her eye, the most delicate of his instruments clasped in her gloved hands. 

"But now you've ruined the surprise!" he sputters as he sees the automaton uncovered.

"What surprise?" Yassamin asks. Absent-minded, she wipes sweat from her forehead with her greasy glove. "It was only a matter of improving the thrusting mechanism; look."

"I can see very well you've improved it," Jaffar snarls; he can feel his very manhood shrivelling in outrage at her having solved that particular problem. He'd been trying to get past it for weeks, and now this wench, quarter a century his junior, comes in and solves it within but the hour he'd let her out of his sight! The audacity of the woman! "I have a good mind to take you over my knee right now."

Yassamin but laughs and wipes her hands on a rag, then takes off her gloves and the loupe. "It was all perfectly simple; but basic mechanics. My father had an entire shelf full of books on the topic. Not that he could ever make head or tail of them," she says. "I remembered a trick I'd seen in The Book of Ingenious Devices, and as you can see, it works. Do you remember that one? By the Musa brothers?" she asks him over her shoulder. "I must have read it over twenty times when I was a child."

"I looked for a copy of that book everywhere!" Jaffar grumbles, huffs, crossing his arms in a sulk. "It's why I set my crystal to spy on your father's palace in the first place," he mutters. "And at first, I but wanted this _pesky maiden_ to move her head so that I might better peer into the book over her shoulder."

"You never told me that!" Yassamin says, astonished, pleased. "No wonder I felt as if someone was trying to nudge me every time," she now murmurs to herself.

"Well, soon enough, I was more fascinated by the beautiful maiden than the books," he grins wickedly. "And I spent more time memorising her figure as it rose naked from her pool," he says and comes to embrace her, rocking his hips--and she blushes, actually blushes, as if a maiden once more! "Can you blame me?" he continues, now getting some satisfaction out of flustering Yassamin at least, basking in her arousal as he holds her close. "And what I saw as she lay tossing and turning in her bed, unable to sleep as she called to her dark prince in the mirror, letting her little fingers do the walking--"

"Enough!" Yassamin says, slapping his chest. "You are shameless."

"Just like my wanton little princess, then," he chuckles, taking her hands, kissing her head--and he makes a face from the engine grease she had just transferred onto her forehead. "Come," he says, wiping his mouth on his sleeve; "show me."

"I left the face unchanged," she smirks. "I like the younger you. I'm not so sure about the moustache, however," she says and makes a mock-wince.

He makes sure to give her a wet, exaggerated kiss for that, smearing his moustache all over her face like a slobbering, overexcited dog, uncaring of her protestations. "It is the moustache of an elegant courtier, and that's that," he says, smacking her arse, growling in her ear for good measure. "And it was you who asked for another Jaffar, my lady. Whiskers and all."

"I did indeed," she says and leans back in his arms, admiring their handiwork.

For now, they are gazing upon a younger, silvern likeness of Jaffar himself. Four-armed, he sits there, naked, as tall and as thin as Jaffar himself, and just as lascivious; there's a distinctly debauched twinkle in his sapphire eyes. For Jaffar had promised to build Yassamin a doll, any kind of doll for their wedding anniversary, a doll to pleasure her in any way she should wish. He had expected Yassamin to ask him for a woman, in fact, so her request of another Jaffar had taken him by surprise, had made his heart somersault in his chest. No matter how many times he entered her mind, only to see it filled to the brim with her love for him, no matter how many times they swore love, made love--he would still be astonished by the depth of her love for him every time, still moved to tears, still on his knees thanking the Almighty for having blessed him with such a wife.

"It is as I described it to you, when you asked it of me," Yassamin murmurs. "The shape of the lover of my dreams, the shape that pleases me best."

"You are going to make me weep again. Stop it. Show me the thrusting mechanism instead."

She laughs and murmurs a rune, a syllable of lifting, thrusting, virility. Soon enough, the automaton's prick springs into motion, thrusting slower, then faster, thrusts longer and then shorter, at angles higher and lower, all obeying Yassamin's hand and the movements of her eyes. 

"What do you think?" Yassamin asks flirtatiously, kissing Jaffar's neck.

"I think you can tell what I think," he groans, already hardening against the small of her back. "My God."

"Didn't you make boy-dolls before?"

"I did indeed, but they all specialised in the pleasures of accommodating a man with their hands and mouths and arses, you see; all in sucking and stroking and sodomy, rather than something like this."

"Well, I am glad I calibrated his prick, then," she laughs. "I would not want either of us to be maimed by him."

"Very true," Jaffar says--he had, in fact, been meaning to test the doll himself after taking on his female form, to better assess which kinds of thrusts were more pleasurable than painful, to add delicacy to the doll's touch in order to please a woman. 

But Yassamin seems to have done exactly that, as if she had sensed Jaffar's unease and nervousness about the doll potentially hurting her. Thus, Jaffar wonders if it weren't their empathic connection that had brought her here today in the first place: so that she might give the doll the final touch, the tenderness only a woman could gift it with.

And that reminds him. "Would you I took on a female shape in turn?"

"No," she says, shaking her head. She turns around in his arms and holds his hands to her heart. "The shape that pleases me the most is this; I just told you," she smiles.

"Very well," he says, kissing her head again, now making sure to avoid the grease. "Tell us how you want us."

"I want to watch you," she says.

Jaffar laughs nervously and raises his eyebrow, his prick now so stiff it tents his robes. "Indeed?"

"Mm," she says, pressing her hips against him, letting his erection nestle into the softness of her belly, against the tinkling metal decorations of her belt. Her eyes are wicked, playful as if two fish in a pond; a shiver of delight goes through him every time he spies that maenad look in her eyes. "I would watch as he took you, husband; watch as he _made a meal_ of you," she says, her mouth wet with relish. "Think of it. No ego from another lover making his demands--"

He rolls his eyes. "Fadl, yes--"

She nods, laughs. "Only a man made of your own desire, ours. Your dream, mine; only what you want done to yourself."

He shakes his head, trying so very hard not to weep once more. "And this is what you want as a gift? To gift _me_ instead?"

"I have said it before, my love," she says and wraps her arms around his neck, hugging him tight. "And I shall say it again: never am I as happy as when I see you play."

Oh, but even after all these years of wild debaucheries, Jaffar can scarce believe it: the excitement of this new adventure to come curls in his belly, makes him unable to stand still. Now, he is gazing past Yassamin and staring at the doll, measuring the lascivious smile upon his face, thinking of the ravishment that awaits him, all his fantasies made silvern flesh.

"And you would join in eventually, I take it?" he asks, his mouth dry from want.

"Of course," she says. "That's why I improved the winding mechanism as well; to make sure he lasts for several hours at a time. Then it'll be _your_ turn to watch," she smirks, her tongue peeking out past her teeth in a tease.

"Insatiable," he grumbles, laughing as he pulls back, planting a soft kiss onto her lips. "When do we start?"

"That's what I meant to talk to you about," she says. "There is something I would you did first to prepare, so that we might try something new. Something I have wanted to do for a very long time, now."

"I am all ears," he says.

She shakes her head, smacking his arse with both hands. "I am not talking about your ears," she laughs.

*** 

For an entire week, Yassamin watches him burn. She denies him her caresses, turns him from her bed, feeding that part in him that so thrives on anticipation, denial. And his fire stokes hers in turn, rippling into her body through their psychic bond: even as he tends to his affairs, plays with his children, works on his devices, she can feel the pulse of heated blood in his cock, the tightness in his sack, the stray moans held back in his throat. The heat that the retained sperm brings to the body as it rises up his spine, the magical power it builds up in the flesh and the nerves, all of him vibrating and humming with it, his touch electric: oh, but he is _beautiful._

Yet this is no ordinary denial-game, no ordinary lovers' tease: for now, at Yassamin's behest, Jaffar has started to stretch himself, make way in himself to finally take her hand.

Thus, he spends hours each day wearing beads, plugs in his guts, cries hoarse into his pillows as he takes himself with his own fingers: Yassamin can feel this all the way from her own bedroom, her own body tensing as her husband forces himself to open for her love. 

During the day, she can always tell whenever he is wearing something inside of himself: if it is a larger, leathern plug, he sits down with great care so as not to injure himself. And when it is a set of jade spheres--ones he had stolen from Zainab when her back had been turned--his walk is even more catlike and lascivious: just upon the edge of her senses, she can smell his pre-ejaculate.

After morning prayers, he demonstrates to her how he is tying down his prick with straps, rings so as to keep himself from growing erect, so as not to be conspicuous: this torture, too, he enjoys enormously, his trapped genitals swollen from blood, swaying heavy between his thighs. 

"And it is all for you, my sweet Yassamin," he whispers hotly in her ear as he walks past her, sending to her the fullness that is growing within him, a quick flash to jolt all her nerves with. "All for you to drink from, all for you to sup upon," he says as he kisses her ear, then again leaves, she now left more frustrated, heated than he.

***

But now the week is at an end, now the children tucked into bed, now comes their seventh wedding anniversary. And Jaffar appears to her at the door of the shabestan a bridegroom: decked in white, doused in perfume, he enwraps her in a cloud of musk and roses and heated, passionate kisses.

"My sweet."

"My prince." She smiles at him, she herself only wearing a thin turquoise silk robe, pulling Jaffar down to lounge beside her upon the bed. "You do not look a day older."

He shakes his head. "Yet you become more beautiful day by day," he says, stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers, adoring her in the warm lantern light. "Come. What is thy bidding, my queen?"

"It is my bidding that you should be taken by Sarosh, here," she says, gesturing to the heavy dais beside which she has raised their bed, a slab of stone they have used as a work table before. Sarosh--for it is Obedience they have named Jaffar's silver twin after--sits upon it cross-legged, smiling a tranquil, quiet smile.

Jaffar frowns. "You and your altars. Did you pick that idea up from Zainab, too?"

"I do like a beautiful display," she purrs, knowing exactly how being placed upon a pedestal will stroke Jaffar's vanity. 

"It's not the height I am concerned about, only the surface," he winces and strokes his knees. "Don't I get a rug at least?"

Yassamin laughs and kisses him. "Certainly," she says and levitates a thick carpet, two onto the dais with a flick of her fingers, sipping from her wine-bowl as she does.

"Show-off."

"I take after my husband," she smirks. "Come. Let us begin."

"As you wish," Jaffar murmurs against her lips. A shiver goes through him as he lifts off the bed; he hesitates a little before the dais. A curious expression flickers over Yassamin's face as she watches him, and Jaffar notices this: it is true that he has always been a man foolhardy and audacious rather than timid. He thinks upon this, twirling his fingers against his thighs as he stares at Sarosh, sitting there ready and waiting for him, beautiful, strong, erect.

"It is not often that one comes face to face with one's own desire, you see," he murmurs, not looking at Yassamin. "To see yourself so mirrored..." he says and glances over his shoulder at her, smiling a little wistfully. "You were the _object_ of my desire, the fulfillment of it, I thought--but this is different," he says, swallowing thickly. 

Yassamin takes his hand and kisses it, resting her head against his hip. "Your desire frightened me at first," she says quietly, gazing at Sarosh, contemplating the power embodied in him. "Therefore, I think I understand what you mean. You did not seem quite human to me at first, you know. And he--"

Jaffar nods. "Aye. Not quite human," he laughs softly. 

For now, Sarosh gazes upon him the way he gazes at Yassamin, and to so burn underneath his own gaze--it shakes him. Is this truly what Yassamin feels every time? Is this how naked, how bare she feels whenever Jaffar looks upon her with desire? To be so stripped by a glance, to be so ravished in the soul, swallowed whole by a mere look? No wonder she had felt so terrified of him at first, he thinks, lust and regret a strange mixture of emotions now swirling restless within his breast. He is still a little hesitant as he lets go of Yassamin and approaches Sarosh, running a gentle hand over the doll's warm, smooth shoulder as he comes face to face with him. 

His own eyes are not made of sapphires, but Yassamin had insisted on making Sarosh's eyes abnormally blue, the blue of djinn-fire: they flicker with wicked mirth as they measure Jaffar, so real in their unrealness that Jaffar stills in awe once more. What must Yassamin have programmed into Sarosh to make him look at him with such power and hunger--to make him feel as if he were devoured alive? He most certainly hadn't instilled this quality into Sarosh, but trust Yassamin to have given to him of her own experiences, so that Jaffar might now experience the seduction of a Jaffar in turn. 

_Is this what you feel each time?_ Jaffar now thinks at Yassamin, for spoken words would tarnish this moment. Even if Sarosh is not alive, he _feels_ so alive that Jaffar instinctively guards his thoughts from him, shy as a virgin before her first man. 

_You're worse,_ Yassamin chuckles into his mind. "Come, Sarosh," she says gently. "I would you loved him the way he loves me; be to him not a stranger, but a husband."

And at that, Sarosh's eyes flicker once more and he lifts an uncannily eloquent, gentle but firm hand to the opening of Jaffar's shirt, beckoning him to the dais. "To hear is to obey, mistress," Sarosh says, but it is Jaffar he is looking at, his voice silver-soft, as if a tongue softly lapping at one's sex.

Staggering, Jaffar sighs as he sits beside Sarosh, marvelling at him as the doll undoes his turban with deft hands, the white silk fluttering about his head like doves' wings. Sarosh's smile is patient, yet in the surety of his hands, in the knowledge in his eyes, in the confidence of his manner Jaffar feels as if he has already been taken. It is the strangest of all things to feel: that he has never had the chance to say no to this, that he has no choice but to be consumed, that he is already burning within Sarosh's embrace and loving it, the possibility of him not enjoying his ravishment nonexistent.

For that small part in him, that pageboy in him that still sodomy fears is muffled, suffocated by the power of his own desire, the engineered desire now ablaze in Sarosh's eyes. The threat of having to yield to an older man, the violence always inherent in sodomy, each time--the reflexive terror of it flickers across his skin as Sarosh undresses him, as he himself kicks off his slippers, drawers. 

But it is then that Sarosh mixes into this drink of terror-desire the balm of perfectly measured care. Tenderly, Sarosh cups Jaffar's face, kisses him softly upon the lips and smiles: the light in Sarosh's eyes pierces through him as sunlight through water and underneath his touch he ripples, ripples, his need torn open wide.

Jaffar cups Sarosh's head in turn, his fingers playing at his ponytail, identical to his own; he laughs a little as he realises Yassamin has not added any extra hair onto Sarosh's head. His hairline is as Jaffar's own, having receded well onto the top of his head, the strands of it now more silver than the jet black they had been in his youth. "You could have flattered us a little," he chuckles over his shoulder at her, her joy a soft heat radiating into him from behind, her desire enveloping them both in its warmth. 

"Never," she murmurs; "I would not want him to love like an inexperienced youth, but a man mature: a man who takes his time with his lover."

Jaffar quirks his eyebrow. "I think she means we should take it slowly," he says to Sarosh, pressing his forehead against his twin's; he nuzzles Sarosh's nose with his. "Touch me," he says, waiting for Sarosh to respond. 

_What is his will?_ he asks Yassamin with his mind. _Does he have one?_

 _His will is yours, my love; yours and mine. We communicate to him our need and he responds; reveal to him your wishes and he shall fulfill them, according to your desire._ "Touch Jaffar as he would love to be touched, Sarosh," she says out loud, her voice rich from tenderness; "touch him the way he needs to be touched, yearns to be touched by a man."

Jaffar cries out at this, trembling at what Yassamin is now offering him; Sarosh's fingers tighten in his hair as the doll pulls him into a soft, deep, passionate kiss. Sarosh drinks Jaffar's moan from his mouth, gathers him close with his two lower arms as he caresses his head with the upper ones, lifting Jaffar gently but firmly into his lap so that his legs are wrapped about his silver torso. Already Jaffar is erect, his genitals free from their bindings for tonight, and again he moans as his cock rubs against the firm, warm silver flesh of Sarosh's belly. So slippery, so smooth and yet so soft; this, and beside his, Sarosh's own prick brushing against his belly in cruel, hard promise.

And now, he can feel Yassamin moving up beside them, sitting on the dais so that she might watch them more closely, her body heat mingling with his. But oh--Sarosh pulls him even closer, now, closer, spreading Jaffar's arse, his lower hands spreading his buttocks for Yassamin to see. She must be giving Sarosh telepathic commands Jaffar cannot hear; the audacity of the little bitch!

"I heard that," she laughs, and from the corner of his eye, he can see the shadow of her hand gesturing at Sarosh. "More. Let me see what you will be taking tonight, Sarosh."

Sarosh pulls back from Jaffar's kiss, licking his gleaming red lips, and it is only then that Jaffar realises that his mouth is sticky with honey, combined with some other sweetness he cannot quite place. It seems to be this same sweetness that now beads upon the tip of Sarosh's prick, in perfect imitation of Jaffar's own voluminous sap--but of course, of course! It's the fluid he had engineered to course inside of Sarosh's body as lubricant. Yet Yassamin must have added another tube to feed into Sarosh's mouth, since Jaffar does not remember having given his mouth any lubrication whatsoever: another gross oversight on his part that she had corrected. To think that he had built so many dolls with dry mouths, that their owners would have had to oil them themselves had they desired fellatio!

"Spread him, Sarosh," Yassamin says.

"Your wish is my command, mistress," Sarosh murmurs, and Jaffar has no time to reply before Sarosh has pulled him down so that he is lying down on top of Sarosh, Sarosh's hands holding his arse open for Yassamin's gaze. The honey-sweet slickness now spreads onto his buttocks--the ampullae he had inserted into Sarosh's fingertips for this very purpose--as Sarosh pushes one finger inside of him and tugs, making Jaffar shout into his mouth in surprise and delight. The fingers are surprisingly supple and strong as they hold him open, claw him open thus, the true touch of a man, so unlike the caresses Yassamin normally gifts him with. 

Oh, but Jaffar loves this, he cannot deny it: he kisses Sarosh back as if he would any lover, ruts against him, embracing him actively, passionately; the sweet sap of his own prick mixing with Sarosh's as he grinds on top of him. Whorish, proud, he moans and writhes as Sarosh spreads him with two fingers, now, tugging and opening his arse: he only wishes he could see it, the result of a week's stretching, the little cunny he has made of it for Yassamin's pleasure, his. 

And as soon as he thinks that, Yassamin's consciousness joins his: she sends to him what she sees, feels. The first thing that jolts him is the heat, the ache in her cunny, the keen desire in her womb to be pounded; he has no idea how she can stay like that, sitting down upon such an ache. Jaffar closes his eyes, and from that emerges Yassamin's vision, the sight now served before the hunger of her eyes: Jaffar sees his own arse reflected as if in a mirror, the raised pink slit of it held open by Sarosh's fingers, already a gaping hole, as if he had been taken by several men. He howls into Sarosh's shoulder, howls as Sarosh tugs, tugs; his hips jerk against the hardness of Sarosh's belly, his prick dripping with each thrust. 

And Yassamin cannot hold back: she slips her hand to her cunny and presses her mouth to Jaffar's arse. She moans into his guts, her tongue flicking deep inside of him to taste, deep, deep; her heat peaks in her, spikes through her and she shivers all throughout. Her orgasm begins to billow through her, sending a tremor through her womb, another; yet, with some superhuman strength, she interrupts it and pulls back, telling herself to wait a while still.

"I want to see you do it, Sarosh," she says, her voice reedy, husky, strained as she pulls off her robe, wiping her wet fngers on it. She moves off the dais to stand beside it. "Prepare him."

Dazed, drunk, Jaffar watches her as he turns to rest on all fours: she sups honey-kisses from his mouth as she helps him turn around, straightening out the already-rumpled rugs. "You're an animal," she sighs as she walks around him, her soft hand tracing his spine: it is his prick she means, she shows him as she glances at it, now dangling heavy, a Priapic monstrosity between his legs, slapping at his belly. And then her hand is around its shaft, stroking it softly, stroking it the way he hasn't been stroked in a week: Jaffar whimpers into his crossed arms, shivering as she so manipulates him, offering himself completely unto her touch. The roll of her hand slams pleasure into his hips, the heat within his body swirling up his spine in turn, all of his body burning with it, roiling with heat: he cannot tell what Sarosh is doing behind him, and he trembles at the possibilities.

"I should have given you rings," Yassamin murmurs. "Sarosh." 

_Oh._ She points to the two thick silver bangles on Sarosh's wrists; deftly, Sarosh snaps them off and closes one around the root of Jaffar's prick, another around the root of his sack. The living silver tightens around his flesh, tightens, traps blood into his genitals, and for a brief moment Jaffar is terrified: what if the tightening should go on, endlessly? What if he were unmanned? Would his Yassamin make a eunuch of him? And if so, would he resist, even then? Something dark and perverse twists inside of him at the idea, now fed by those days he has spent as a woman, not having missed his prick at all: could he live without it, permanently?

"Not a chance," Yassamin laughs into his ear, stroking his cock in her hand. And now, the silver stops contracting: it settles around his genitals in a comfortable squeeze, enough to enhance his erection and his pleasure, but not enough to maim. "I love this prick too much, and would have my share of it still," she murmurs with a roll of her hand. "Sarosh, the bowl."

Jaffar is puzzled as Sarosh hands Yassamin a small golden drinking-bowl, which she then places underneath Jaffar's genitals. But as Yassamin begins to stroke him in earnest, its purpose is soon revealed: Sarosh pushes fingers--Jaffar does not know how many--inside of his arse and begins to hook them, drag them against his prostate again, again, again. _They are milking him,_ he realises, laughing deliriously. They are milking him, milking him: he cries out, shivering on the dais as the first spurt of his sap splashes into the cup, all hairs on his body standing on end as the fingers scoop and massage and press inside of him with relentless, firm skill.

"I would like a little refreshment, you see," Yassamin purrs, drinking Jaffar's whimpers from his mouth; through her eyes, he sees his own desperation, the wild awe and shock in his eyes. His hair has already come loose from its tie, spilling over his shoulders, flying around his head; that, too, Yassamin loves, blowing it aside from his cheek, chuckling into his mouth in delight. "My wellspring," she croons, her thumb massaging him at that exact spot underneath his glans that turns his spine into liquid gold; oh, all of him flows out into her hand, into her cup like a wounded tree flowing with sap. Sap, sap, he splashes clear into her golden cup, swirling out as love; and now, Sarosh's mouth closes around his balls and _hums._

"Please--" Jaffar cries, jerking between his tormentors, clawing at the rug. "I'm--you'll undo me--"

And it is at that that Yassamin lets go immediately. She retreats with a smile, but Sarosh does not stop. Instead, he yanks Jaffar's arms back with his hands, lifting him up so that his cock slaps against his belly, drags across it, lashed with strings of his arousal; Jaffar shivers as he sees how much he has already spilled into the cup, his sap swirling bright upon the breasts of the nymphs embossed into the inside of the cup. Yassamin must have told Sarosh to hold him still like this, so that they both remain on their knees: she peeks into the cup, then takes her place at the foot of the dais with a good view of them, spreading her legs to masturbate. For a moment, the only sounds in the room are Jaffar's strained breathing, the soft hum of Sarosh's mechanisms, and the slick sounds of two of Yassamin's fingers moving in and out of her swollen, flushed cunny.

Yassamin watches them for a while, teasing, teasing. She lifts glimmering strings of her sap out of her cunny and licks them off her fingers; she adores the way this makes Jaffar's cock twitch, trickle ever more. 

Jaffar groans. "Do you want me to beg?"

"Not yet," she laughs. "Take him, Sarosh," she says. 

And it is at that that Jaffar feels silver entering his arse: yet it is not a full prick, not yet. This, this is a masterstroke of his own engineering: for now, Sarosh's prick narrows down to the size of a finger, pulses out a little slickness so that it may slip in easily, immediately. Yassamin nods, and only then does Sarosh's cock begin to swell and expand again, to fill out in its glans, thick veins springing up on its shaft as it slowly begins to move inside of Jaffar's body. 

Jaffar has seen this so many times himself, but to now feel it, to have each curve and ridge slowly grow inside of him, sliding back and forth inside of him, pressing against his prostate, striking sparks from every nerve--he closes his eyes and gasps, his head thrown back upon Sarosh's shoulder. He kneels there, straining helpless as he is penetrated, impaled like a prisoner of war, two of Sarosh's arms clutching his chest and his belly as two clasp his hips, Sarosh undulating into him slowly, sweetly. 

Like a corpse, he hangs there, vanquished by his own design, Yassamin's: quietly, he begins to sob at the enormity of his emotion, as Sarosh's cock reaches its full size and begins to thrust inside of him in firm strokes, without Sarosh himself moving at all. This is what Yassamin had known he had wanted: to be held completely still, Sarosh's cock retracting itself and pushing out again without his hips coming off Jaffar's buttocks at all, his embrace never wavering as he takes him, he crushing Jaffar against his silver chest. The way he himself takes Yassamin when she is at her most melancholy, at her most restless: holding her completely still within the gravity of his love, not letting her escape as he takes her, pinning her down as he pounds his love into her, love, love. 

Drunk, Jaffar lets his head loll to his chest; his hair falls into his eyes and he sobs. "Yassamin."

And as he looks at her, she arches off the cushions, reaching the peak herself: she cries out, hoarse, looking into his eyes as she trembles there, joyous as she unravels upon her hand. She takes herself with her fingers furiously, her face twisted in a grimace as she tosses there, twists: her sobs equal his, her love flowing to his heart to embrace him in spirit, just as Sarosh embraces him in the flesh.

The flesh, the flesh: finally, Yassamin staggers over to the dais and wraps her wet hand around Jaffar's cock, holding out the cup.

"Now," she says, looking into his eyes, and she is speaking to both him and Sarosh: gladly, Jaffar lets go. Sarosh slows down his thrusts, lengthens them, his cock taking on a doubly bent shape that now presses upon Jaffar's gland and teases at the curve of his colon simultaneously--again, something a human prick couldn't do, a pleasure so incredible Jaffar's eyes roll back in his head. Even when Yassamin has been turning her fingers inside of him, even when she has been using toys inside of him, never has he been touched in both nerve-centres at once: that, and at the rim of his anus, further ridges tug upon the muscles of his opening and he is gone, gone, gone. 

Deliriously, he laughs inside as the pulses of orgasm overtake him: to think that his head is full of engineering even at a moment like this! But shouldn't it be allowed, all things considered? He laughs out loud, too, now, as golden blow upon blow, Sarosh pounds his orgasm out of him, the orgasm that has waited in his hips for a week: a violent, body-wracking release, all offered to his Yassamin, his Yassamin.

And oh, but the way her eyes widen as she catches his seed in the cup: she laughs, too, in amazement at the volume of his ejaculation, the rich splashes of it, thick and heavy, white swirling into the clearness of his sap. And still, he comes, each thick spurt incredible in the pleasure it brings as it bursts out of his balls and echoes through his bones; he sobs as each blast leaves his cock, so much better than what thinner ejaculate can bring. In his mind, he thanks Yassamin, thanks her for this gift of enforced celibacy, for on and on he still unravels, every muscle on his body straining as she and Sarosh wring this massive release out of him that no human man or woman could ever bring him.

"It is you who are my gift, sweetest husband," Yassamin says, waking him from his reverie, her hand gentle upon his cheek.

He butts her hand like a cat, kissing it, adoring, adoring. "I love you," he whispers. "Let me see it, then," he says. "Drink from me."

She dips her finger into the cup and swirls it, then takes a little sip: but the demoness awakens in her eyes and she climbs onto the dais, holding the cup out to Jaffar's lips. "That a lover should not share her cups with her beloved?" she laughs and shakes her head. "Drink, for it is sweet."

And he chokes upon his tears as he drinks this potion brewed by her love, heated up by his hips: a mixture of lye-slickness, sperm and sap, salty and sweet; this elixir drawn from his very marrow. The empty cup falls from her hands and clatters onto the floor as she pulls him into a kiss, cupping her tongue to steal the nectar into her mouth, tasting him deep, deep. 

And now, Sarosh, too, frees Jaffar and tastes from him in turn: Jaffar laughs as Sarosh sips from their mouths in this bittersweet kiss, his silver cheek glistening bright from Jaffar's seed.

"Is he still inside of you?" Yassamin laughs.

Jaffar squirms happily. "Indeed, he is."

"Sarosh," she says, looking at Jaffar instead. "Show me what you have made."

And gladly, lazily, Jaffar lets himself be pushed face down again, displayed: Sarosh spreads his buttocks for Yassamin to see, Yassamin's breath upon his anus making him clench tight and sweet. And again, he feels himself gaping open wide, Yassamin showing him that glistening, red, hollowed cavern of flesh Sarosh has made of his arse. _Beautiful, beautiful,_ Yassamin tells him with her mind; "Beautiful, beautiful," Sarosh lilts as he swirls his fingers around the rim, tugging it from side to side.

Jaffar but whimpers in joy into the rug, languid, happy, exhausted as Yassamin and Sarosh take turns fingering him, kissing his arse, tongues pink and silver flicking and curling inside of him in their hunger. He knows that he will still have to take her hand tonight, but that time is still far away, and Yassamin's mind concurs with his: she turns to face him again, still tasting his arse from her fingertips, purring from her pleasure. "I would watch him take you again," she says, cupping his cheek with her wet hand.

"But what about your share?" he mumbles, his eyes lazy as he nuzzles her face.

"Wait and see," she says, now sitting cross-legged upon the dais before him. "Sarosh, take him face to face. And slower, gentler this time."

"I will not protest that," Jaffar says, stretching in delight as Sarosh turns him around and gathers him into his arms. Jaffar has not grown much softer; the rings have taken care of that, and as they are not giving him too much pain yet, he does not care to remove them. He simply lets himself be loved, the sweet fragrance of Yassamin's cunny making his nostrils flare as she sits behind him and strokes his hair, as Sarosh takes his legs upon his shoulders and enters him once more. 

This time, Sarosh does not shrink himself upon entry, but pushes into him whole: whether this was Yassamin's wish, or his own, Jaffar no longer knows--are they not the one and the same, by now? For he loves it, the thickness pushing past the now overly sensitised muscles of his entrance, just on the edge of pain as Sarosh so stretches him. 

And Sarosh hears this, too: Jaffar can feel some of the ridges upon Sarosh's cock softening, sinking back inside of its shaft; yet, he tells Sarosh to keep the glans as it is, and to again give him that bend that touches him in two of his most sensitive places at once.

And now, everything is perfect: Sarosh looks down at him with his sapphire eyes, smiling with his crooked teeth like a beast, and all of Jaffar shivers upon his cock, shivers. That moment before Sarosh snaps into full motion, that cruel moment Jaffar himself always inflicts upon Yassamin to see the flash of excited fright in her eyes: oh, but he is terrified and his cock pulses, his lungs stop.

But then, that breath he has been holding is pushed out of his lungs as Sarosh pulls back and drives in, as deep inside of him as he can, penetrating him deeper than anyone ever has before; howling, Jaffar convulses in his arms. He wants to be sick, his stomach lurching as the now-smooth glans of Sarosh's cock enters his colon, but it feels too fantastic, fantastic--has he not done this to Yassamin, too, with his hand, his fingertips? He sobs at the realisation of this, at the prelude to what awaits him tonight, a penetration far greater, a taking far more immense than this. 

And in Sarosh's eyes, he can see the intelligence of Yassamin now guiding him, can spy the glint Babylonian: at once man and woman, Sarosh now begins to move inside of Jaffar in earnest, sliding deep in and out of him, deep.

"Take him as he takes me," Yassamin murmurs to Sarosh, her hair whispering across Jaffar's face as she kisses Sarosh in turn; Sarosh's upper hands come to squeeze her breasts as he bucks his hips and rolls them, rolls them with intent. That exact skill Jaffar himself uses to drive Yassamin wild, oh, oh: ululations dribble down his lips, suffocated by Yassamin as she pleasures his mouth with his favourite delicacy, the split peach of her cunny. But that is a mere taste she now offers him, for now Sarosh growls and bends Jaffar double, so that Yassamin has to move aside: he slams his hips into Jaffar and Jaffar no longer knows what to do, what to hang on to, his hands slipping with sweat, taken so completely he does not even have breath left in him to moan. 

Yet even this is not enough: he wants to be defiled, wants to sink deep into the sin they know best. Thus, he asks for the Byzantine pleasure with his mind, sending his desire to Sarosh, begging for it with his flesh. And there, there, Sarosh lifts off him and offers him his cock, gleaming, dripping from Jaffar's arse to his mouth, sweet: moaning in ecstasies, Jaffar closes his lips around the forbidden taste of it and _keens_. Even underneath the lubricant, he can taste the surfaces of his gut, the wonderful herbal richness that drives him wild, all of him rippling with its thrill: he gags in delight, tears bursting out of his eyes as he tastes himself deeper than he has ever done before. He closes his hand around his cock, but cannot come before Sarosh is inside of his arse once more, dipping into him fully, again filling him to the extremest end of his guts, deep, deep.

He wants to howl, but cannot; terrifying visions of butchered animals flash through his mind as he calculates the depth of gut Sarosh must be entering, now, his breath coming in short gasps before his mouth and throat are again thrust full of slippery cock. Like some twisted haruspex, he reads the language of his own entrails upon the streaks now marbling Sarosh's cock, a new pattern each time he offers it to Jaffar's mouth, entwined with calligraphies of white, a little yellow and again a thicker white, the thickest of the gut's mucus: he is at once disgusted and delighted as he so devours himself off his double, like those stories of children who ate their twins in the womb--oh, but he is delirious, delirious--

Yet, on and on Sarosh continues, using Jaffar as he wants to be used: taking arse, mouth, arse, mouth with relentless force, dipping from one end of his body to the other as if it were Jaffar who were the doll, made to please Sarosh's cock and Sarosh's cock alone. Each time he has pushed Jaffar to the edge of orgasm, Sarosh lifts and offers himself to Jaffar's mouth again, taunting him with these constant fillings and withdrawals: thus, Sarosh keeps him rippling, vibrating as he is held upon the cusp of it, his face and his mouth streaked from kohl, sap, tears and must. 

But at the crest of this all, Yassamin moves in to watch, to see it all, the love of her eyes transmitting the vision to Jaffar. Now, he can see himself, see the utter laxness of his body, his arse so open wide it does not close even as he gags, coughs, dribbles around Sarosh's richly smeared cock; this vision would be his undoing, would it not be for Sarosh now pinning his hands down so that he cannot touch himself. It is torture, the sweetest of tortures, his mouth swimming thick from his salt, from Sarosh's sap of honey and brine; he howls as again Sarosh penetrates him, his arse slurping like the cunt it is as Sarosh begins to pound into him once more. 

"Turn him around," he can hear Yassamin saying, and then she is underneath him and his cock is in her cunny and he is in Paradise. He howls into her shoulder, Sarosh fucking him into her, Yassamin's hand burning against his pubis as she rubs herself to orgasm underneath him, her cunny clenching around him so violently he can feel each one of its convulsions around his cock. He can barely move, and that is what helps Yassamin come, to exact her release from him by following her own rhythm instead of his: she writhes underneath him, taking him with her cunny; she, too, using him like a doll as the real doll now pounds Jaffar into another release. 

And in Jaffar's ears, Yassamin's laughter rings like bells; her laughter swirls about him as she and Sarosh force him to come with thrusts and sweet squeezes, cunny and cock conspiring against him, wringing the last of his sperm out of him. He shivers in cold chills, so happy he thinks he might be sick, his love-madness tripping over into nausea but he does not care, no, he does not care one whit: he clutches Yassamin to himself, he the innermost link in this circle of loving, this endless ouroboros of all that he could ever desire. Man, woman, he himself the hermaphrodite in between, all sexes, all bodies, all loves; sperm and cunny-sap rich in his nostrils, the salt of an arse rich upon his tongue and he is replete, replete.


	2. Chapter 2

When Jaffar comes to his senses, Sarosh lies top on him, so still that he wonders if Yassamin has switched him off. Yassamin herself lies underneath Jaffar and Sarosh still, her arms and legs around them both, kissing Jaffar softly. "Happy anniversary, beloved."

"You have not had a chance to play with him yet," Jaffar slurs; somewhere in the back of his mind, a part of him laughs madly at him still wanting to watch new perversions, still wanting to continue the orgy despite being wrung dry.

Yassamin hears this and raises her eyebrow, squeezing her cunny around his half-hard cock until it finally slips out of her. "He is unclean. I would not have him in my cunny like that."

"That's easily mended," Jaffar says and slips out from between them. In a mood to show off, he orders Sarosh to get up on his knees, then flicks his hand and speaks a rune. There is a blue flash of flame over Sarosh's cock, licking at his genitals up and down for but a few seconds, and now he is completely cleansed. "There we are. Fresh and ready to pleasure this little thing," he says and slaps Yassamin's wet cunny, sending her yelping.

Yet she is still hesitant, eyeing Sarosh's cock with trepidation. " _You_ might be able to take him, but I am not so sure about my cunny."

By now, Jaffar knows what she means--and to think that at first, he had been wondering how on earth she had always said her arse could take more than the cunny, considering Nature had only ever designed the cunny and not the arse to take a man inside of itself! Yet the first few times he had changed sex, he had been shocked at the sensitivity of the cunny, how easily a vagina could be rubbed raw, inflamed, the root of the womb so hurt by a lover's blows that it could become too sore for penetration for days. In comparison, despite the entry being more laboursome, he had found his arse could indeed be stretched more, penetrated deeper, stimulated with rougher toys and practices for far longer a time before pain made coitus impossible. 

But this is exactly why they had designed Sarosh's prick to adapt to their desires, to adjust to their bodies' needs. "Order him to grow smaller, then, a little more pliant?" Jaffar asks, sitting on the dais, caressing Yassamin's belly. 

"Warm me a little more first, husband," she whispers and pulls him into a kiss. 

And there, they make love, slow and sweet while Sarosh kneels beside them: now, Jaffar takes his time enjoying his Yassamin, worshipping her body the way he had wanted to worship it on this special day, soft and languid now that his own lust has been sated. With his mouth and his fingers, he takes her, embraces her so tight she cannot breathe; with his love, he makes her so soft and so wet she is trembling, swollen, trickling upon his hand. "My sweet, beloved wife," he whispers into her cunny, his tears wetting her mound; "for an eternity, I will thank the Almighty for making you mine, all my life upon this earth and beyond it. Whether I should end up in Hell or in Paradise, I would still keep singing his praises," he sighs, "still thanking him for moments like these."

"Then sing to him, too, my thanks for his angel, Jaffar, sent to guard me and love me so," she sighs, lacing her hand with his: "thank him forever for this sweetest of husbands, forever for making me his."

He kisses her hand, her breast, her mouth. "Do you think you could take Sarosh now?" he asks softly, smiling. "I must admit it would give me great pleasure to watch you take him."

"All right," she says, then turns onto her belly, wiggling her hips. "But this way."

"To hear is to obey, mistress," Jaffar laughs, smacking her on the buttocks; he moves to stand at the foot of the dais, cradling her head in his hands. "Are you comfortable?" he asks as he nods to Sarosh, bringing him to life once more.

"Yes," Yassamin says and leans her head on her crossed arms. 

"Good," Jaffar says, chuckling with mischief. "Because you are going to stay like that for a while." With a flick of his hand, he locks Yassamin's arms in place. 

"I don't believe it," she groans and rolls her eyes. "What have you planned _now?_ "

"Oh, nothing much," he says as he guides Sarosh to mount Yassamin, kissing her as Sarosh slowly enters her cunny from behind, Jaffar drinking her moan into his mouth like fine wine. "I just thought that since he has more than enough hands, well. Isn't this how you ride them when you bring yourself to completion? Hmm?" he says as he plucks the memory from Yassamin's mind, using it to guide one pair of Sarosh's hands to clasp her cunny, one on top of another so that the full weight of her hips is pressed against them. Jaffar settles inside of her body for just long enough to read its sensations, himself shivering in delight as Sarosh gently spreads Yassamin's cunny, bracing the ball of his thumb against the top of her slit, the little hard peak of her clitoris ground against its firmness. 

Yassamin stiffens; Sarosh has found his mark. She moans in surprise, in disbelief against Jaffar's belly, loud enough to make even his spent cock twitch; "Oh, God," she groans and sobs and tosses her head, unable to _not_ grind herself against the silver hands, the silver cock now sliding deep inside of her cunny, slow and sweet. All languidity, all torpor is suddenly gone from her: like a nymph rising from the grass, she stirs and begins to rub herself, take herself upon Sarosh, faster than Sarosh is taking her. "More. Please. Sarosh, Jaffar, please, please."

"You do beg so sweetly," Jaffar purrs and guides his cock to Yassamin's mouth, shaking his head himself at how hard he is once more. "Have a suck on this and I shall see if I can make your wish come true," he says pleasantly, crooning and caressing her hair. "Sarosh. A _ravishing_ tempo, I think."

Both of them expect Sarosh to utter "To hear is to obey" once more, but no, no: it is now a _groan_ he lets out, a groan terrible, animal, that of a beast in rut. All hairs on Yassamin's back stand on end; she gags on Jaffar's cock and stills. However, her stillness is immediately crushed by Sarosh's free hands on her hips and a rolling blow to the very root of her cunny: a scream bursts out of her mouth, rippling over Jaffar's cock, her breath puffing so sweetly against his pudendum that his toes curl in delight. For a moment, Jaffar worries that he has hurt her, but as Sarosh repeats this blow, pressing and squeezing and pulling and grinding into her with both pairs of softly whirring arms, her screams turn completely into those of pleasure. Her mouth comes off Jaffar's cock, her hair a flying mess about it, her face gleaming with spit; her eyes are lost as she gasps for breath against Jaffar's belly, her entire body shining, shaking with Sarosh's thrusts.

"You bastard," she howls between sucks, but with a smile; Jaffar brushes her hair back from her head, clutching it in his fist as he ruts against her face in turn, two beasts taking her in this manner, sharing their chosen female. 

"You love it," Jaffar hisses, jealous himself as he watches the uncannily precise roll of Sarosh's hips, the enormous arcs of them as Sarosh rotates them clockwise, his hipbones glimmering in the light of the lamps.

Yassamin's pleasure spills over and pours into Jaffar's mind, flows into it easily, filling him in turn; he can feel the echo of each blow perfectly measured, hitting the back of her cunny at that exact spot she loves, already making her trickle a little onto Sarosh's hands. 

But that is not enough for Jaffar. "Need a little help?" he asks, sweetly, licking two of his fingers and pushing them unceremoniously into her arse. And even if she screams at this, even if she closes her teeth around the root of his cock in warning, he but pulses, pulses in sadistic delight as she ripples around his hand. And there, again that terrifying, yet fascinating realisation that it is but a thin film of flesh separating him from the other man now pushing into her, she entrusting this terrible fragility to his touch: he turns his caresses more tender, tells Sarosh to slow down, to give her that curve he had so loved himself.

And quietly, Sarosh obeys: Jaffar takes out his hand and slips his cock out of Yassamin's mouth, tasting her off his fingers, not wanting to spoil this moment.

For now, Sarosh leans over Yassamin, pressing her into the dais with his entire weight in that way she so loves to be taken, with a tenderness breathtaking for a man made of metal. As if a living lover leaning in to whisper in his mistress's ear, he nuzzles Yassamin's cheek, cupping her head, dropping soft kisses onto her mouth as he rolls into her, undulates into her: Jaffar need not even peek into Yassamin's mind to know that her silence is the result of pure ecstasy. Ecstasy, as that sublime curve of Sarosh's cock now presses not merely into the back of Yassamin's womb, but that area at the front of her cunny that always makes her spray and gush.

Well--Jaffar needn't, but he peeks into her mind nevertheless, and there, he himself grows fully hard as he feels what she feels. Those electric shocks as the curve of Sarosh's cock presses into the soft flesh just behind her pubic bone blind him for a moment, and he has to brace himself against the dais so as not to fall over. "God!" he cries out the same time as Yassamin, he now so entwined with her that a pulse of sap--how has he any left?!--escapes his cock at her first trickle. "God, God, Yassamin--"

He can feel she wants to suck him, trembling as she does upon the very edge of orgasm, but she is too lost to move, now: therefore, Jaffar guides himself into her mouth, cupping her head, Sarosh's. "Make her come," he begs of Sarosh, moving into her mouth, gasping onto Sarosh's lips at the greed with which she devours him; "Do it, do it, do it."

And now, all he can hear is Yassamin's scream, her disbelieving wail as she comes undone. Her flesh judders, the whiteness of her buttock fat undulating with Sarosh's thrusts, and there is a wet puddle underneath her, now--oh--God almighty--is she wetting herself? Jaffar feels for her, but Yassamin does not know this either, but having turned into a fountain of colour, of shocks, of lights, of radiance. She howls and she howls, Jaffar's cock slipping out of her mouth as she sobs her release, her voice hoarse and now there is a trickle down the side of the dais, splashing onto the floor--and for a moment, she blacks out. Truly, she loses consciousness for a few, bliss-filled seconds, her mind turning white and then black and then white again as Sarosh pounds her bliss-spots, each one a shock so violent throughout her body that distantly, Jaffar worries whether she is going into seizure.

"Let go," he murmurs to Sarosh, now terrified at the force of Yassamin's orgasm: he had meant for them to ravish her, to take her by surprise, but he could not have expected this. He gestures for Sarosh to kneel up, and lies down on his side next to Yassamin, releasing her completely and gathering her into his arms. "Are you all right?" he asks, his hand hovering upon her cheek, and a cold fear scoops at his stomach as Yassamin but shivers in his arms and stares into the distance, unseeing. 

"Please, my love--" Jaffar is choking, now, making to rub her shoulder but he is unsure, not knowing if even one more touch should break her in her state of sensory overload. He but hovers at the edge of her mind, not diving in yet lest he is overwhelmed himself; he must keep a clear head if he is to pull her through. "Please, Yassamin. Please say something."

She draws in a shuddering breath. _Jaffar, son of Yahya of the Barmakids of Baghdad, I know not whether to call you a madman or a genius._

He laughs in utter relief, hugging her so tight she squeaks. "So I take it that your experience was, on the whole, pleasurable?"

She pulls back and looks at him drunkenly, her eyes half-closed. "What makes you think it's over?" she slurs, glancing at Sarosh, then at Jaffar. "I've not even had him sodomise me yet," she mumbles. 

And apparently, even a love-drunk woman's command is enough to register in Sarosh's sensitive mechanisms: he turns to spoon Yassamin as gently as Jaffar is now holding her. There is only barely room on the dais for the three of them, yet Jaffar refuses to move from his place, holding Yassamin gently as Sarosh begins to penetrate her from behind, slowly seeking his way into her arse.

Jaffar shakes his head and kisses her hand. "Insatiable."

"Mmm," Yassamin says--but now she tenses, winces. No matter how relaxed one is, this first stage of anal penetration always brings with itself that stiffness, that shiver; pain flits across her face even as Sarosh's silver prick drips with clear fluid, more than enough to ease him inside of her. Yet Sarosh's cock is at its fullest, most formidable size, seeming brutal as he lifts Yassamin's buttock and rocks himself inside of her, relentlessly coaxing the ring of muscle into opening for him.

"Why did you not ask for him to shrink it?" Jaffar whispers.

 _I prefer this;_ she replies in spirit, unable to speak. _Reminds me of you,_ she shivers into his mind, curling and rippling there, her tremors becoming his. 

And indeed, now Jaffar is trembling with her: a twinge in his arse stiffens him in turn and his eyes fall shut; his mouth opens and he presses his forehead against Yassamin's, panting against her face. "My God."

 _Yes, I enlarged it,_ she chuckles into his mind, again tensing around Sarosh's prick. _And then there are these,_ she thinks, suffocating a moan as she calls for more ridges to rise upon its surface, cruel, wicked. 

_You are a madwoman. Mad. Here, let me--Yassamin, please. Allow me to help you a little at least._ Jaffar gestures to Sarosh, and at that, Sarosh lays one of his hands upon Yassamin's cunny, stroking her clitoris softly.

But now, from Jaffar's command, a little noise breaks out as the hidden mechanisms in Sarosh's fingertips spring into motion: for Jaffar has installed rows of little beads, like peas in pods, inside of Sarosh's fingers. And now, those beads roll and clash and rattle against each other, bringing a sweet, steady vibration to his touch: Sarosh frames Yassamin's clitoris with these fingers, capturing it between them.

"Oh, my God!" Yassamin cries. "It's--"

"Brilliant, even if I say so myself," Jaffar grins, chuckling. 

"I don't mean that!" Yassamin groans and rolls her eyes. "It's _loud._ "

Well, that is true enough: now Sarosh whirrs and chimes like an orchestra of tambourines and rattles, and Yassamin cannot help but laugh; she yelps even as she relaxes into Sarosh's lovemaking, out of breath. "It's ridiculous!"

"Don't insult him!" Jaffar sulks, because it's _his_ genius she is insulting--although he has to admit he finds the situation comical himself.

But it is as if Sarosh has heard them: abruptly, the noise stops; the vibrations die out. 

Yassamin looks at Sarosh, who still seems to be moving into her in a gentle rhythm, then at Jaffar. "Did you tell him to stop rattling?"

"No," Jaffar says, examining the doll. "It's as I said. You must have embarrassed him."

Yassamin glances over her shoulder. "Or your brilliant invention failed," she laughs, biting her lip. "It is no matter, Sarosh. Do continue."

"Ungrateful wretch," Jaffar grumbles and in revenge, dives down to lick at Yassamin's cunny, pushing Sarosh's now-noiseless hands aside. "I will show you!"

And thus they yelp and writhe there, without malice, Yassamin sinking her hands into Jaffar's hair and clutching him with her thighs; Jaffar is but grateful for the mechanism having broken down, and Yassamin does not seem to be complaining either.

"Feels so good," Yassamin moans, probably onto her second orgasm already, going by the way her cunny has swollen against Jaffar's mouth. "Please, husband; don't stop," she sighs, tensing, taut against his lips and tongue. 

"I wouldn't dream of it," Jaffar murmurs, adoring the way she flushes against his mouth ever more. He will never cease to marvel at this, the way her cunny shows her pleasure at sodomy in such a shocking, lewd fashion: the inner folds of her cunny as thick as her fingers, the outer lips of it swollen to twice their normal size. And she is constantly trickling, gushing a little upon his tongue: his moustache will be sticky afterwards and he loves it; he should be able to smell her upon it for _days._

And when he draws back, the sight makes even his own half-hard cock twitch: the steady glide of Sarosh's cock, fluid even with his ridges, in and out of Yassamin's arse. The raised, red ring of her anus, the secret sign of her harlotry known to only but the few who have shared their bed--oh, but it never ceases to turn him mad from desire, a man love-insane. Yassamin might want him to keep on licking at her cunny, but he is a man selfish: he brings his thumb to rub her clitoris instead and begins to lap at Sarosh's shaft, lick the glorious taste of her guts' secretions from it, her salt mixed in with Sarosh's slick sweetness.

And as Yassamin moans and lifts her leg and brings her hand to join Jaffar's upon her clitoris, all of her straining, so close to orgasm, Jaffar thinks she will scold him, but no, no. Instead, she howls as she watches him, her face twisted in the most delicious of disbelieving shocks as she watches her husband so lick her taste from another man's cock--oh, but she has always adored this, the rare pleasure it is. And thus, Jaffar gives her what she wants, gives of his own whoredom to pleasure his favourite harlot with: briefly, he asks Sarosh to pull out completely, pushing four fingers inside Yassamin's arse as he sucks his cock into his mouth, moaning in utter, lascivious abandon.

And at that, the sweetest of noises bursts into his ears, the sweetest of them all: Yassamin screaming as she is undone, her body jerking onto his fingers, and as Jaffar again guides Sarosh's cock deep into her guts, with all of its ridges pushing past the ring of her anus at once, her shriek is so loud he fears she will deafen him. Her eyes roll back in her head and she convulses in Sarosh's embrace, Sarosh now fucking her like a doll limp in his arms as he plows into her with his entire strength; her hand flies upon her gushing cunny so that Jaffar can no longer even suck at her or rub at her. Yet he adores it, adores this sight of her lost, completely submerged and drowned in pleasure, laughing as he holds his tongue out to catch the last few drops of the ejaculate she now sprays his face, her thighs, Sarosh's sack with.

She reaches downwards, and Jaffar thinks she is about to stroke his face, but she clasps Sarosh's hands instead. "Please. Sarosh. Enough," she murmurs, her tongue thick in her mouth, her hands slipping, trembling; Jaffar thinks he can even hear her teeth chattering.

"Hush," Jaffar says and turns Sarosh off completely: Sarosh falls back, lying down as if in sleep, curling up so that his cock slips out of Yassamin, nesting softly against his balls as if it were true flesh.

Yassamin lies there with her eyes closed, and for these moments, Jaffar chooses to observe Sarosh instead. For now, as his mechanisms die down and as the magic is sapped away from him, he again becomes but a heap of metal, no longer alive, a thing dead, no longer breathing. In fact, it makes Jaffar a little uneasy, and he thinks he knows why: for did they not just agree Sarosh was the amalgamation, the shape of their own desires indeed? How strange that a machine, a thing dead to begin with, can die and thus cause a twinge of regret, a sense of loss in its maker's heart: for it is as if a part of Jaffar himself has died, or gone to sleep.

"What are you thinking of?" Yassamin murmurs as she gestures for Jaffar to come embrace her, pulling him into her arms.

Jaffar keeps looking at Sarosh over Yassamin's shoulder. "That this man of silver is--you might think it strange of me to say this, but I feel that for a moment, he was our child more than our children ever will be. In that he was an image of us, a copy of us, a joining of us in the shape of but one man. Yet unlike the children, he has no personality, no individuality, no mind of his own--but our own minds guiding him," he whispers. "I can see why this kind of creation is called blasphemy by some; to think of it is enough to drive a man mad."

"Then it's good that he is not truly alive, then," Yassamin says, ever ready with her common sense and her wisdom to keep Jaffar firmly anchored to the earth. "Think of how annoying, what a _bore_ a perfect copy of us would be, were he truly a living being! A creature as outrageous and as perverse as you--"

Jaffar nods in an exaggerated fashion. "And as persistently sensible as you, enough to drive a man mad," he says, slapping her arse and squeezing a buttock in his hand. 

"You mean intelligent," she says and blows hair out of her face. "Forget not who perfected him."

"Yes, perfected him by ruining my vibrations with her lubrications!" He glances at Sarosh again. "They probably burst and jammed the entire thing. It'll take me forever to clean it up," he grumbles.

Yassamin's eyes flicker with mirth, with gentleness. "Look at us. Seven years together and we are bickering," she says and cups his cheek.

"And I would not have anything else," Jaffar groans and pulls her close to his chest. "I meant what I said about wanting to forever thank the Almighty for making me yours," he sighs and whispers a little prayer of thanks against her shoulder. "God is merciful; God is merciful indeed."

Yassamin whispers her own prayer of thanks against Jaffar's heart, kissing his collarbone. "I, however, shall not be as merciful," she smirks. "The night is not over yet, my love. Remember what I promised you."

"You do realise you sound exactly like me, now?" Jaffar laughs as he pulls back to look at her, his heart skipping a beat at her smile. "Do you think I, in turn, sound like a Yassamin these days?"

She squeezes his arse and grins. "You certainly scream like a girl as you come. Every time you get something up your arse, I fear the windows will break."

"So that's why you insisted on bringing me here tonight," he says, looking pointedly around himself, into the darkness of the shabestan: there's not a window in sight.

"Correct." She takes his hand and kisses it. "Now rest your lungs awhile, husband, and then we shall begin."


	3. Chapter 3

They leave the dais and spend the rest of the evening in bed, leaving its soft shelter only to wash; immediately after, they drench each other in perfume, spending long moments massaging each other's skin with oils of musk, rose and ambergris. 

Jaffar has cooked for them special dishes to enjoy tonight--his mother's recipes of dozens of ingredients which had taken hours to prepare--and Yassamin had purchased for them a rare form of Chinese opium, purported to be an aphrodisiac. Yet, in wordless agreement, they decide to save all of these for later, lest they come in the way of the fleshly pleasures they have yet to explore.

Yassamin groans and slides over Jaffar's oiled body, sighing in utmost happiness, her eyes again warm from lust, the colour of honey-wine. "I would take you, husband. Are you ready?"

Jaffar makes to kiss her palm, but decides to mop it first; now that it is less oily, he can kiss it and cup it against his cheek without making too much of a mess. "As ready as I'll ever be," he murmurs, curiosity triumphing over his slight trepidation, arousal having lifted his cock to half an erection once more. "There is but one thing I would ask of you, my lady."

"Ask, and it's yours."

He searches her eyes with his, still cupping her hand against his cheek, the hand that will take him, the hand to which he shall give himself whole. "I would you did not enter my mind this time. Do not mistake me," he adds quickly, seeing Yassamin a little hurt, a little disappointed. "I but mean that I would feel the act as purely as possible, without another's experience mixed into it. At least this first time. Would you grant me that?"

"Jaffar, I--" she shakes her head. "If it's that important to you..."

Again, he kisses her hand. "I mean the beginning at least. It will be hard for me to hold back at the peak; that, I am sure of," he says and smiles. "I merely wanted to tell you now, so that you would not feel rejected if I chose to close the doors of my mind to better analyse, examine the sensation."

"Engineer talk!" she harrumphs, but lovingly. "Do you want to know what I think?"

"Yes?"

And now, she sends it to him: her determination to drive him out of his mind. _You don't know what you have started, son of Yahya,_ she laughs to him in her mind. _Now, you but make me want to give to you everything that can be given in the body, without the telepathic contact; make your flesh burn with as bright a flame as possible, until you have no choice but to yield your mind,_ she thinks and licks up his neck, kissing his ear. _Oh, but I shall see to it that you are driven mad, my sweet man-pard; mad._

Jaffar cries out and shivers, his cock jerking against her belly. "Yassamin--!"

 _We shall see how long you will last without bleeding into me, my love,_ she laughs as she slides down and takes his arse with her mouth; _we shall see about that indeed._

And it is with a cry and a laugh of utmost joy that Jaffar lets himself be turned onto his stomach. He arranges himself comfortably so that there is a plush, silken cushion for his genitals to press into, enough cushions for him to hug, for the last thought that Yassamin sends to him is that she will be spending a long time down here, a long time indeed.

"As if I would ever protest to that," he sighs over his shoulder, smirking; he clenches and shakes his buttocks playfully. "Have your wicked way with me," he murmurs, adoring her, spreading his legs for her love.

She smacks his arse for that. "Indeed?"

"Mm-hmm," he purrs.

But before he can say anything more, Yassamin smacks his arse again, again; he lets out a laughing breath, then bites his teeth together in a hiss as he realises she is no longer but playing. No, no: she is slapping his buttocks in true chastisement, with the full force of her arms behind her blows, marking his arse and his thighs with her hands.

And now that he cannot see what he looks like--for so long, they have shown each other what they look like as they're being taken--it but fans his desire to imagine the red blotches spreading all over his buttocks, his legs, makes him sob in delight as he cannot predict where each blow will land. Now, he cannot clench his arse or pull his thighs together instinctively when she is about to deliver a smack onto the bare vulnerability of his perineum, his sack or even his anus: he howls and arches off the cushions as she so beats him, takes him with the trained cruelty of her hand. Her hand, her hand: he is so glad she did not choose the whip for this purpose, deciding to begin their entire play with what is to be their main instrument of pleasure tonight.

"I love you," he whispers into the cushions, arching his back in offering, now spreading his legs in sacrifice, bracing his knees on either side and pushing his arse out, begging for her touch. Another blow lands upon it, a third, right over the ring of his anus; the snaps of her fingers sharp and hard upon the bud of muscle and nerve. Each smack rings deep into his guts, swallowed eagerly by the hungry darkness of his flesh, each touch of hers already making him sob with pleasure, making him yearn for more. He wants to send his desire to her through his thoughts, but this is a sweet restraint, this, as if a new form of binding they have only just discovered: once he has gone past the point of verbal speech, he is held in place by his vow of psychic silence, having to trust himself to her ministrations. Now, the only way in which he can speak to her is through his body, through its language of surrendering and opening: again, he lifts his arse to be warmed by her, prepared for love by her blows. 

And now, she spits, spits right over his hole; he cries out into the pillows and imagines it, imagines the white wad of spittle dipping into the hollow of his sex-distended arse, its clenching then pushing it out, out to dribble down across the seam of his perineum. It is a filthy act, an act only men do with each other, something Fadl used to do to him after he had learned it from an older, brutal lover; Yassamin has rarely performed it upon Jaffar, but now nothing could be more perfect to heighten the thrill. Again, she spits, a third time, caduceus-serpent curls of the white and clear spittle now curling down his seam, he thinks--oh, but he is glad that Yassamin isn't seeing into his mind, now, the way he is thinking in mystical symbols even during sex! She would scold him for it, surely--

"I can hear you thinking, you know," she laughs and then her tongue is upon his arse and he can think no more.

She is not penetrating his mind, but presently she surrounds it, lays siege to his soul through his body, drowning him in sensations, knowing this is the one act through which she can drive him to the point of utter madness. He has rarely been able to come from being made love to in such a manner, but it is perhaps the greatest pleasure-torture anyone could inflict upon his body, and it is his Yassamin who knows this art best: he can barely remember the day of the shy young wife who had first awkwardly performed this illicit kiss upon him, such a mistress has she become at its art. And never has he opened to anyone's tongue so, never has anyone unfurled him so in such love and such trust: he swears he can feel each individual fold of his anus the way Yassamin now spreads him out with her hands, digging her slick, sinuous tongue deep between each fleshly petal of it. Again, he cries out and quivers, moaning yet louder as that noise pushes his flesh open further; now Yassamin can dip even deeper inside of him, each flick of her tongue a lash of blue and white lightning up his hips.

It is as if she has charted every nerve in his arse and the areas to which those nerves connect, navigating his body with the expert precision of the Chinese acupuncturist, knowing the magic spots through which to manipulate even the distantmost of organs. Here, a little pressure, a little rub, and a bolt of heat will flash up into his prostate, making his cock drip long spurts of sap; a little curl-flick here and he will groan low in his belly as bright heat sparkles up his spine. She rubs his perineum with her thumbs, too, claws his buttocks apart with her fingers--he is so glad he cannot feel her nails tonight, his body already aching to have her fingers inside of him, _please, please._

"Please," he cries into the pillow, his pleas interrupted by a string of his own little "ah"s as Yassamin ignores him and but takes his arse with her tongue, pressing her face into it so that she is fucking him into the bed with the entire force of her body, taking him the way she wants to take him, and nevermind his protests. And oh, but Jaffar loves this, too: loves being ravished the way _he_ always ravishes _her,_ but sobbing in gratitude as his body can satisfy Yassamin's hunger thus, she pushing into him with such passion that it's almost like a cock--

And then, she is inside of him.

"Yassamin!" he cries, curling, arching, stiffening as she pushes into him with force, he suddenly spread wide, impaled upon her hand. "How many fingers is that?!"

"Four," she laughs. "Just the perfume oil and spit."

"Oh, God," he groans. "You lie."

"Well, I may have used a little of my own wetness," she says innocently. "But it _is_ four. You _have_ been busy this week," she laughs.

"Never been so open in my life," he slurs, his voice dying into a quivering breath.

"Does it hurt at all? If I'd worn those plugs as long as you did, I would have become sore. I did not want you to over-exert yourself, so that you would not hurt too much tonight."

"I don't hurt too much tonight," he mumbles, trying to squeeze around her hand, but it is of no use: she is already stretching him too much for him to clench his muscles around her. "You just... surprised me, that's all."

"That, and you are a little tart." She hooks her fingers a little, and going by the sound of her voice, she is marvelling at the ease with which she can turn them around inside of him.

"Guilty as charged," he sighs, but then rests his head upon his arms once more and looks at her over his shoulder, twiddling his toes playfully. "Please, continue," he says, in a voice soft, feline, feminine. "It feels wonderful."

"All right," she says and kisses his buttock.

And it is then that she sits down more comfortably, sitting cross-legged between his legs. Even as Jaffar closes his eyes, he can hear her opening the jar of the thickest ointment they save up for this purpose, and this purpose only. As she takes her hand out to grease it, every hair on his body stands on end; he stiffens without meaning to. But she notices this, too, kissing his back, his arse, his thighs as she slowly greases the entire cleft of his buttocks, gentle as she prepares him for deeper penetration. Softly, she massages his perineum, his buttocks, seemingly having slickened both of her hands: Jaffar gasps as he realises she is now massaging him open with two sets of fingers. 

Yes, it is both: she alternates with her hands, and he wonders if this is a technique she had learned from the women she has played with, since he has rarely done this with her at such an early stage of the hand-play. But it works marvellously: as she pushes in the tips of her fingers from one hand, she can slide in the other's beside them, removing the first hand as she does: soon, she settles into a slow rhythm of in and out, at times filling his arse with both hands' fingertips, at times only one.

"How does that feel, my love?" she asks, one hand softly resting upon his back, the other buried inside of him to--what? Is that the knuckles?

"Wonderful," he says. "How deep are you?"

She lifts her hand a little. "The knuckles. Are you ready to take them?" She has taken his hand often enough to know how they can hurt a little, at first.

"Please," he says. "I'm not made of glass. I have been waiting for something firmer, as a matter of fact," he says and grins at her over his shoulder.

Yassamin raises her eyebrow playfully, then turns her hand, rolling her knuckles inside of him, she herself shivering as she watches, feels her hand sink inside of him. "How's that?"

Jaffar breathes in deep, fighting the shiver, fighting the goosebumps; he closes his eyes and lets out a deep groan, forcing its vibrations into relaxing his muscles. " _Amazing._ Please. Oh, God. Don't stop," he cries, suffocating a little mewl into his arm as Yassamin now pulls out a little, curling her fingertips right over his prostate as she withdraws, only to push back in again. "Oh, Go--" but his words are cut short as she assaults him once more, her fingertips now teasing at the mouth of his colon at the same time as her knuckles roll back and forth across the muscles of his opening, making him shiver and drip and choke and convulse in ecstasies. 

"Got you," she murmurs at his silence. "Palm-deep," she sighs, massaging his perineum with her thumb, laughing a little as each small twist of her hand pushes a little noise out of him, his hips jerking against the silk cushion he is now rutting into with abandon.

And that is the last thing either of them says, hears for a while. For now, she greases her other hand once more and starts to alternate again, slipping one hand in with the assistance of another, stealing in with such ease Jaffar is flushed, flushed from shame and arousal. But he can barely think any longer, so great is the pleasure, now that she is using both hands to reach all of his best spots: the sphincter, the prostate, the curve of his colon. He is constantly bombarded with sensations, never able to linger on one for too long because of Yassamin's constant withdrawals and insertions, her hands teasing him and fulfilling him in an endless stream of different pleasures linked to one another. Linked, linked like a chain, a chain of pleasure to enwrap him by, like lianas; pleasure snaking up his spine, his ribs, radiating down his thighs: now, he shivers all over in but warmth, vibrates like an instrument the way she plays him, a simple repeating melody on all his nerve centres continuously brushed, caressed, made to sing by her loving skill.

He has to turn to his side, and despite Yassamin querying him with her eyes, she does not challenge him for this. He reaches out to sip a little water from his cup--only enough to wet his parched mouth, for any more would make him nauseous--and to wipe his forehead, signalling for her to continue with a nod. He rearranges the pillows so that he can angle his hips up better, allowing his internal organs to settle so that she can enter him more easily: he has never tried this before with her, but he had heard Zainab tell that this position helped some to take an entire hand. And even if it must have been women she'd been talking about, with wombs and ovaries and all kinds of other things in there to make it more difficult--he remembers being surprised by how crowded it could get there from the times he'd been female--he is sure it can't hurt now.

"Does it hurt?" Yassamin asks him, as if she'd heard that word echoing from his mind, and she probably did. 

He but shakes his head, still unable to speak. He but pushes out his hips and closes his eyes, announcing his surrender with a deep breath.

And then, there is but pressure, but deep, sweet pressure and love, the heat and the warmth of his Yassamin's hand in his guts. The sound of the jar and the grease and the slickening, her soft breath upon his arse, her hands as they spread him, take turns penetrating him, all music heralding his final yielding. Jaffar scoops up some of the grease from between his buttocks and clasps his cock with his slickened hand: he is wearing no rings or straps around his genitals this time, and is almost completely soft. He had nearly come earlier, when Yassamin had first entered him and touched his prostate, but he had almost forgotten about his cock, so focused had he been on his arse and the pressure upon his spinal nerves. But now that the moment of the most complete penetration approaches and Yassamin's hand stalls a little--it is as if it has come against resistance Yassamin cannot, and will not force herself past--he has to start coaxing his body into opening with a little added pleasure.

"Don't stop," he murmurs against his arm, his tongue trembling upon his skin, tasting his own cold sweat. "Please, Yassamin. Please let me take it."

She hesitates a little, but it's obvious she does not want to break his heart by expressing this hesitation in words: slowly, she resumes her loving of him, her opening of him. Oh, but he adores her, and it is her patience that is his undoing, as it always has been. For she takes her time in loving him, and he is made incandescent: the way sunlight, over millenia, polishes a humble rock into a shining ruby, so does she sharpen his desire, burnishing him, making him glow. Now, time loses all meaning, them but suspended in this dark womb-chamber of the shabestan, and it is not so strange that he should think of wombs, he realises, being filled in the way that he presumes is as close as a man will ever get to experiencing childbirth. For Yassamin must be into him up to the widest part of her hand--oh, she must be, and he needs but give her that final push--"Please, Yassamin, now--"

She rolls her hand and pushes in, just as Jaffar pushes out with his muscles; something in his body _gives_ and she slides inside of him to her wrist. His eyes fly wide and his mouth snaps open, but no sound comes out; there's no breath in him, for his lungs have stopped. 

For a moment, he fears they have torn something. _Is it--is it--_

_I can see no blood,_ Yassamin thinks back at him, _and feel nothing torn. Do you?_

 _No. Except my pride. That's how long it took for me not to speak to your mind, then,_ he thinks and laughs out loud, laughs: but even that little laugh plunges him into a swoon, a thick fog of shock, and now he is covered in cold sweat, as if his body had only just fully realised what was being done to it. That he should experience even shock with a delay--

But now Yassamin's spirit is upon him, enfolding him, she resting as much of her body over him as she can. She holds him, embraces him in the soul, wrapping herself about him as his flesh wraps about her hand. 

_You are beautiful,_ she thinks. _You, this: the most beautiful thing I have ever known. That I can hold you like this, feel your life's blood beating against my hand--oh, Jaffar. My sweet, sweet Jaffar._

 _That pulse is what I love the most about doing this to you,_ he thinks, laughing within his mind, light, glad. _Yassamin--my Yassamin--_

Her tears fall upon his hip; she shakes her head and laughs. _It's odd. It's like when I heard the children's heartbeats inside myself. Is that a strange thing to say? A thing bizarre?_

 _Not at all,_ he thinks, and he takes his hand off his cock to brush her cheek, to take her tears and to lift them to his lips. _But that you should gift it to me, now--that I can feel the one I love more than life itself inside of my body--oh, my love, my love._ He blinks tears from his own eyes, sniffs, struggles for breath, adoring her, worshipping her as he gazes into her eyes. _Please, my beloved. Continue._

"There would be no greater pleasure in the world for me than to please you," she murmurs to him, smiling softly against his hip as she begins to take him with her hand once more. "But I would you pleasured yourself, too. Let me see you come, my love; let me see you glow."

"I already thought you were making me glow," he slurs, his hand slow upon his cock, slow and sweet. "Like sun and rubies," he murmurs.

"Now, you _are_ going mad."

"Correct," he sighs, again closing his eyes and now, with a great groan, he turns onto his back. He wants to see her face, see the face of his Yassamin as she so takes him; this makes the act a little more difficult, but he thinks he can take it. And he can see the pleasure in her eyes, too, as she gets to watch his face in turn, watch as his cock slowly fills out in his hand. She grins with great delight as she milks out what little fluids there are left in his body, little trickles escaping the tip of his cock each time she curls her fingers past his prostate.

"Shall I keep doing this?" she asks at one such spurt.

"Tug your hand out a little faster," he hisses from between his teeth. "That's it. Oh, yes. Yes. Faster. Take me with it, just like that, just like that, _God--!_ "

And it is torture: even if she dips into all his perfect spots, now, he is fuller than he has ever been. He simply does not know how to come through this act, having never experienced it: even if Fadl's cock had been enormous, this is far beyond it in size, unlike anything he has ever taken inside of himself. He teeters upon the edge of orgasm, and he tells Yassamin this in his mind: even if she is always there to catch him in her net of care, her patience, he can sense her arms are tiring. He feels a little guilty for making her work so hard on him, even if in her eyes he can still see the glow of the ravisher, the pride of a youth on his wedding night. 

Oh, youths--this does indeed remind him of them, for the last time he had felt like this was during a bout of utter grief when he had been a young man, too drunk and too anxious to come even if he had been masturbating for hours on end. He cannot even remember what that tragedy had been that day, what type of wine he had been drinking; all he can remember is the despair and the ache in his cock, so sore from his working of it, the pain lasting for so long it had hurt for him to pass water for days. But he cannot let Yassamin down, he cannot let himself down. He must have release, he must--

But it is then that Yassamin withdraws entirely, and shows Jaffar himself. He can feel a short flash of hesitance in her mind, but since she meets no resistance, she unrolls her vision before his eyes in full, gives to him what she has always given him, sharing her vision with him: his arse, opened, cloven, heaving. All those times he had called it a cunt, had wanted to make it into one, and never has it been this swollen, a thick, gaping, almond-shaped slit, like the cunnies of fertility goddesses, oh, oh--

He looks up, and he sees his own face through Yassamin's eyes: his eyes full of tears, his kohl smeared about them in dark rings, and still his arse is heaving, now pursing shut, pushing liquified cream out of itself with a sickening, loud slurp. Oh, but it's disgusting, but it's the most beautiful thing she could ever have shown him, this little mouth that now gapes, opens, yawning wide. 

Yet he needs more, needs more of her love, just a little bit more--

"Yassamin--"

But before he has even uttered the last syllable of her name, her hand is inside of him. With a roar--is that hers? His? Yassamin plunges in her hand, closed into a fist, and he sees her knuckles as they slide past the newly-formed _lips_ of his arse, as easily as a cock slides into a cunny. Oh, but he wants to retch, and he wants to die, and he is coming, coming. His own hand blurs upon his cock as he sees it from two angles, an ejaculation weak as it sprays a thin, clear fluid onto his belly, pooling in his heaving, rippling navel; yet his orgasm is the strongest he has ever felt in his life, Yassamin literally pounding it out of his hips. He does not recognise his own voice as he shrieks, like a woman, like a wildcat in heat; he hurts his own ears with his screaming, hurts Yassamin's, but her cunny flutters at this sound as its vibrations crash through her body in turn. 

On and on he comes like a woman, and now Yassamin's free hand is upon her own cunny, she rubbing herself into an orgasm that takes her by surprise: she had not expected to come from doing this to him. But she is so entwined with him that the waves of his own orgasm peak through her, hard shockwaves rippling up her penetrating arm into her body and into her womb. And from Yassamin's womb, the waves surge back into Jaffar's body, until husband and wife become but the one flesh, echoing with ecstasy: neither knows which wave is Jaffar's and which one is Yassamin's, where one being ends and another begins; neither cares, shimmering radiant as they fall into release.

Like a man spent upon his woman, Yassamin collapses on top of him, still lingering inside of him, a little cramped; Jaffar convulses, arches underneath her still, shuddering so violently that he almost throws her off himself. And it is then that she has to pull out, has to take up his arms, his legs and entwine his body with hers so that he is pressed into the mattress, pressed into the cushions, her weight the earth's pull to his raging sea. His sobs crash upon her chest like waves upon rocks, the last undulations of his orgasm shattering upon her; all of him euphoria spraying, falling, raining iridescent droplets of light. For long moments, his spirit floats there sweetly diffused, dissipated, dispersed into the air; like holy perfume his soul breathes around her, heaves around her, heavy and rich and sweet. 

He wishes he could speak, but his body no longer obeys his orders: it takes a long while for him to return his consciousness completely into his flesh, so well has she pounded it out of him. Literally, at that! His head is filled with visions of fruit being pressed, of herbs being crushed for juices, wines, perfumes--that she has extracted his essence from him like some precious oil, a volatile liquid. And now his flesh is but the empty rind, and he does not know how to return the essence to it, she having drunk it--

"Engineer talk!" she mutters in his ear, letting out an exaggerated sob of a laugh. 

He laughs heartily at that, and life returns into his limbs enough for him to now wrap them about her, hug her and kiss her so tight that she mewls into his mouth. "And you are the queen of all engineers, the empress of scientists, the goddess of geniuses," he murmurs.

She raises an eyebrow. "Now I _know_ you're delirious," she says as she proceeds to wash her hands. "You would never say that while sober."

He but giggles, _giggles._ "I like it. We should bottle it. Theriac of the Brown Hand, we could call it."

She rolls her eyes. "Now, _I_ need that wine," she says and throws the perfectly not-brown towel in his face. Jaffar had cleaned himself thoroughly and they both know it, but the devil in him can never resist an opportunity to make his Yassamin groan in disgust.

"Jaffar, come. Where did you put the bottle?"

Jaffar but hums happily with the towel still draped over his face, stretching lazily and wiggling his buttocks. "I feel so relaxed. Rejuvenated. Like I've lost twenty years. So open... perhaps you could fit the entire bottle inside of me. Try it. Now. While I'm still open."

She pulls the towel off his face and slaps him over the arse with it. "Enough! My madman. Where did you put it?"

"It's in the ice-cabinet. I brought the sweet, mulled red; the sort best served chilled. Perfect with the sparrows, which you'll find there as well. Unless the cats snatched them while we were busy."

"I told you to put a lock on that thing!" she grumbles as she leaves for the cabinet beside the bed.

He is too tired and happy to smack her arse. "Nagging," he sing-songs, rolling onto his belly, crossing his ankles and rocking his legs a coquette. 

She throws a date at his head for that. But she should know better than that: a thrown sweetmeat is a declaration of war, and soon they are pelting each other with dates and sugar almonds, making a complete mess of the bed. 

"Enough!" Jaffar cries, his face red from laughter. "I am too easy a target; you have already defeated me once tonight. Come. The sparrows."

It is a miracle the food has remained untouched by both rats and cats: then again, Ettabeh's recipes have always included too many herbs and spices to please the delicate feline palate. Jaffar realises he is famished, and Yassamin must be so, too: they spend long moments but eating, having made love for what must have been four or five hours, now. Cold bird-flesh with herbs, served with cold, sugared mulled wine is perfect for a hot night like this; they don't exchange a word until every morsel has vanished from the plates, until they finally curl up in each other's arms freshly washed and in clean new nightgowns, sharing the opium pipe Yassamin had bought Jaffar as an anniversary present.

Jaffar coughs a little. "I can't say I care for this method of taking it," he says and winces. "The bitterness is all too much," he says as he hands the pipe to Yassamin, sticking out his tongue in disgust. "I prefer the pills. Hell, even the suppositories over this!" he coughs.

"I can see why they called it an aphrodisiac," Yassamin murmurs after she has taken a few puffs, glancing down between her legs. "I feel an ache down there, even if ordinary opium should numb it," she mumbles. "Strange."

"Mm. I feel that, too, as a matter of fact. Thank goodness we sorted that out first, then," he says. "Otherwise I might--" he lets out a jaw-cracking yawn, "might have to ravish you wildly."

She catches his yawn. "I cannot possibly be any more well-ravished than I am now," she says and gives him a kiss.

"Likewise," he laughs.

Still yawning, Yassamin takes the pipe to the dais to rest at Sarosh's feet, making sure the coals are put out. "You guard that while we sleep, my friend," she says and closes Sarosh's eyes with her hand, kissing him on the cheek. "We have had a most wonderful night."

"Come here," Jaffar murmurs and lifts the blanket, gathering Yassamin into an embrace. "You know I sleep better with you in my arms."

She curls up against his chest, her ear against his heartbeat, her fingers laced in his, just as they have done for seven years, seven perfect years. "Happy anniversary, my wellspring," Yassamin whispers against his heart.

"Happy anniversary, my sweet jasmine." He takes her hand and kisses it. "Except with you, every day is a new wedding feast," he sighs. "Never did I imagine such a thing was possible outside a fairytale."

"It is you who have made it into one, my wicked wizard," she laughs softly and kisses his hand in turn. "But now, sleep."

He pulls the blanket over them both and hugs her tight, groaning in utter happiness. "To hear is to obey, mistress."

***

END

***

**Author's Note:**

> Freely rebloggable Tumblr announcement post [here.](http://aikainkauna.tumblr.com/post/143419540718/fic-the-hand-that-waters-the-vine)


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